


want you bad

by wildcard_47



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 23:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16922598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Written for the 2018 kink meme!Terror's Captain and her Ice Master have an old understanding. Turns out, there's more than one way to get a cranky Irishman het up for a good tumble.





	want you bad

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere between 1x03 and 1x05. *vague canon handwave*

“Oi!” Thomas Blanky’s loud, strident brogue echoed through  _ Terror’s  _ wardroom as he flung open the door in search of his old friend. “Francis Aislinn Violet Crozier, are you cattored under the table yet, or is that low wailin’ noise jus’ the hull groanin’ under the ice?”

“Hell’s teeth, Thomas,” growled Francis. Wearing his full uniform save for his coat, he sat mostly upright at the end of the table with his usual empty cut glass and a sea of maps in front of him. “Do you not bloody recall me telling you to keep to formalities? In case anyone else” – he gestured around the room – “is nearby?”

“Eh?” was all Blanky said in response, glancing forward and aft in an exaggerated fashion. The place were empty, save for the two of them. Young pie-faced Jopson was nowhere in sight. “Can’t say I recall anything of the sort, being honest. Heard summat else on the wind today.”

Francis’s scowl deepened, and he tossed his pencil to one side. It clattered over the edge of the table and onto the floor. 

“Fucking Christ. What the blazes is going on now?”

“Begging your pardon, Cap’n, but it’s nowt for the rest of the ward room’s ears. Only I heard tell that our cranky Irish bastard of a leader needed a right good fuck. Clear his head, in a sense. In more ways than one.”

Francis blinked. Raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And which sailor had the goddamn  _ gall _ to accuse his Captain of such  _ dirtiness _ , Master Blanky?”

“Tha’ knows.” Blanky quirked a leering grin toward his old friend as he tapped his left temple with one finger. “‘M a bit queer that way, slithee? Hearin’ auld voices from folks long past. Recollectin’ me wild mollyin’ days. Call it a gift.”

“Well. That – sounds troublesome, indeed,” said Francis quietly, and shifted in his seat. “Did the other men hear such charges being leveled at my person, Master Blanky?”

Thomas inclined his head toward the frost-covered windowpanes. “Seems to me they’re all busy with a bit of friendly competition.” Out on the ice, the majority of the men not on watch paced around a makeshift football pitch, playing and cheering and betting on their fellow sailors. Even LeVesconte and auld Fitzy had shown up to look. “Kicking Fitzjames’s arse back to Savile Row and kingdom come, far as I reckon.”

Francis’s lips twitched, and a slight pink flush formed on his face.

“Well, what say ye?” Blanky asked. “Fancy a shag?”

The Irishman let out a sigh, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thomas….”

“Don’t  _ Thomas  _ me. Had enough fuckin’ these days to keep from nithering, eh?” Blanky let out an exaggerated snort. “Only I seem to recall a midshipman who was always hard for it, day or night. Croonin’ sweet nothings in our ears every time he’d need us.  _ Oooh, fuck, Thomas, want ye on me. Faster’n a damn stallion. So hot for that stiff cock.” _

Last one weren’t so facetious, which was likely what had Francis staring at him like he was a rare steak in a room full of Goldner’s bloody fuckin’ tin cans.

“I remember,” murmured Francis at last.

Without warning, the  _ Terror  _ Captain got to his feet, chair legs scraping bloody murder against the frozen slats. He took a swig of whiskey from the bottle, then ambled over and handed this to Thomas, who took a long pull himself.

“Ten minutes.” Francis cleared his throat and gestured toward the berth. He’d turned a lovely shade of red, now, all the way up to the tips of his ears. “I’ll, er, lock the door.”

“Too right,” said Blanky with a cackle, and thumped Francis on the arse with the back of one hand before he went. 

Letting himself into the Captain’s berth – and Jesus God, the amount of leg room in here! – Thomas doffed his kegs and shirt, hopped up onto the bunk dressed only in his linens, and reached behind to adjust the pillows under his neck. 

By the time Francis had come back, Thomas had grabbed the small tin of rapeseed grease from his pocket and settled against the plush tick, happier’n a fuckin’ pup in a nest. Though a mite or two colder, mind.

“Right,” grumbled Francis as he closed the door to the berth, and cast off his coat, hanging it over the back of the chair. When he looked at Blanky again, he’d stripped down to his shirtsleeves and linens. “Can I leave the shirt on, then?”

“Doesn’t moyder me,” said Blanky with a shrug. “Fuckin’s far less fun if yer nips turn black an’ fall off after.”

Francis rolled his eyes, clearly taking this as permission, and clambered up into the bunk. Wordlessly, he adjusted position over Thomas’s prone form, carefully bracketing sinewy lean thighs with stout pale ones, and shifting his weight to his hands before lowering himself down against Blanky’s body, never taking his eyes off of his middle the whole time.

“Fine bloody job of romancin’ you’re doing ‘ere, duck.”

“Shut your fucking gob, arsehole,” hissed Francis, and finally leaned up to kiss him. 

It had been awhile since their last round, few years at least, and so the clinch was wondrous soft at first, Francis hesitant from nerves and lack of practice, and his reflexes likely a bit slow from the drink, to boot. 

Good thing it was easy to get the lad ower end with some well-placed words.

“This how you snogged your Miss Cracroft?” Blanky groused as Francis bent to his neck. With the Irishman’s mouth occupied, he took the chance to tug and knead that pretty pink arse in both hands. “No wonder she frigged the damn dickens out of you. Seen steam engines warm up faster, mind.”

Grunting against his shoulder, Francis bit down hard enough to bruise, startling a groan and then a satisfied laugh from Thomas, as he felt the stirrings of Frank’s cock against his left hip at last.

“There he is, now. Fat ruddy cock, needin’ to fill summat fast. We’ll get him ready, eh? Slicked up for a right good go.”

He palmed a bit of grease into his hand. Nimble fingers found Francis’s drawstring, undid the knot of his linens just enough to slip a rough hand between them. When he closed this hand around the head of Francis’s cock, the Irishman stiffened and groaned.

“Jesus bloody fucking Christ.”

“Oh, aye,” whispered Blanky, and slowly pumped his hand up and down Francis’s length. “That’s what you’ll be doin’, Frank. Fuckin’ me so slow and deep you’re like to go mad. D’you remember how it felt, eh? Tight. Hot. Better’n takin’ a fuckin’ maidenhead.”

“Fuck your maidenhead, you fucking Tyke,” whispered Francis through clenched teeth, although his eyes went all unfocused at the corners once Blanky twisted his wrist.

“Why, ‘cos you’ve never felt tha’ with a lass?” Blanky slowed his strokes, relished the way the  _ Terror  _ Captain pushed his hips back into Blanky’s loosely-curled fist. “Ah, Frank, just imagine it with me, now. All worked up from a woman’s softness pressed against ye. Small round tits, pert as a couple of ripe plums. Little pink mouth pressed to yours. Long blonde hair smellin’ like rosewater, tangled all in your fingers.”

“Oh, god.” Francis was breathing heavy, eyes closed. “Yes.”

“Aye, she feels perfect. An’ she’s on her back on the bed, blinkin’ up at you like you’re king of the bloody empire, legs splayed wide so you can see her pretty pink cunny, glistenin’ wet and ready to take you in.”

“Thomas.”

“An’ she says she needs ye, Frank. Needs ye to fuck her till she’s spent, eh? Quiverin’ around you like – ”

“Don’t,” and suddenly, Francis’s eyes flew open, widening in a fretful manner as he reared back and met Blanky’s heavy-lidded gaze, “no, stop. Just – ”

“Ah,” said Blanky after a moment, and stopped stroking. “Too much, then?”

“No,” repeated Francis. In the dim light, the glint in his eyes was well mad, though he ducked his head to avoid being caught out that flummoxed. “It – not – Sophia. Please.”

Hmph.  _ Not Sophia  _ could mean bloody well anything, to Blanky’s mind, so he took the next best shot before he could hesitate.

“Seems to me like you’ll be wantin’ a strapping lad, then, duck.”

Color blazed high in Francis’s cheeks, but he did not deny it. 

Thomas took the silence as confirmation of a sort, and began to move his hand again, slow and careful. “Easy as hell t’read ye, Frankie boy. You’ll not seek a soft lass. Take a mouthy lean fellow with a cock like a damn racehorse instead. Someone who’ll chase ye.”

Francis’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and fluttered closed again, as he practically melted back into the touch. Thomas was glad to see him relax at last. Nothing wrong in it. All just part of the fantasy, wasn’t it?

“Fuck me, I can picture that now. You flirtin’ with one of those fancy fellows, right down by the dockyards where e’en the doxies don’t go. You’d blush and stammer all pretty, and pretend ye weren’t there for a right good tug, but every time tha’ one handsome chap turned your way, you’d go stiff as a goddamn board.”

“Mmph.”

“An’ he wants ye so fierce he’s clumsy with it, pullin’ ye down on him like a man possessed. You’re so close to the pier any copper could spy you plain as day, but thy needs a right proper fuck too much to stop.”

“He needs it,” whispered Francis in a low voice, fumbling for Blanky’s cock with a hand. Although he could do nowt but tickle Thomas's balls with the tips of his fingers, given their relative positions, still felt nice. Gentle. “Shut him up.”

“Aye, the lad’s got a great big flapping gob, too. Can’t get him quiet even for a tumble, but you’ve got him right where you want him, eh? Wearing half your clothes to boot.”

“Yes.” A muscle quivered in Francis’s taut jaw. He thrust harder into Blanky’s hand. “Pants ‘round his ankles.”

“Looks so damn good it’s mouth waterin’, eh? He tastes like your favourite tobacco, Frank. An’ you’ll have him right – ”

“On that fancy fucking coat,” interrupted Francis with a groan, tipping forward into Blanky’s chest and nosing his face into a cowlick of hair just behind one ear, then tangling both hands in the bulk of it. “Oh, god.”

Thomas would’ve led with  _ up against the post,  _ mind. But he tried to work with this turn, since the idea clearly had Francis hot as stoked coals. “That how you want it?”

“Nnh.” Francis made a choked noise, fingers tightening in the roots of Thomas’s hair. “Pullin’ those fucking curls.”

And by Christ, what a mercy Frank was hidin’ his face, because Thomas’s bug-eyed gawp was the very image of capt, before he recovered enough of his wits to smooth it over. 

Only man they knew with a great flapping gob, long curls, and a greatcoat clean as Prince fucking Albert’s was James fucking Fitzjames. And that was only ‘cos they’d both had to look at that bloody fluffed up hair and winsome face and shiny brushed coat nearly every day when Sir John Franklin were Commander.

Flaming hell.

“Leaves his coat on, then,” said Blanky quietly, smoothing both hands under Francis’s shirt and up the man’s bare back, with no real clue as to where he should point them next. God knew Frank would sooner burn down the bloody ship than be spurned by a lover, even a truly gobsmacked one. “Er. So desperate neither one of you gives a damn.”

“Begs me for it,” huffed Francis against Blanky’s neck, with a little desperate noise.

Of bloody course he’d want Fitzjames to beg. Frank’d be too proud by half.

Awkwardly, Blanky cleared his throat, pitched his voice a little higher. “ _ Please, Francis, I’ll not last till your cock’s in me.” _

“Yes,” gasped Francis, and moved backwards to bat Blanky’s hand away, slicking his own length up before greasing up his fingers a second time. Reaching out, he slowly circled the furled rosebud of muscle at Thomas’s backside. “Tell me you need it.”

Thomas swore a blue streak as Francis dipped one finger within, carefully thrusting in and out till he found the spot that made the Yorkshireman’s toes curl like a blushing bride’s.

“Oh, fuck me, Fra – er, Francis. Fill me up, love.”

Francis’s fingers shook visibly as he withdrew his hand, lined up his cock, and finally pushed into Thomas in earnest. Blanky had to muffle his own groan with one palm as Francis buried himself to the hilt.

“God, that’s fuckin’ good, eh?”

Francis bit his lip to stifle a needful growl.

“Oh, he’s never had it like this, Francis. Only been wi’ – with fancy whore boys and funny green bucks, not a frothing Irish stallion in his b – _bloody_ prime.”

“Jesus God, yes.”

“An’ every time you fuck in, he tenses up tighter’n a piece’ve coal in a vise, till ye’re diggin’ your damn nails into those broad shoulders, all to keep from spurtin’ too soon.”

“‘Fuck you till you fall apart,” Francis was panting now, forehead pressed to Blanky’s shoulder. “Harder than you’ve ever – ”

“An’ the little noises he makes, bleedin’ Christ, they’re so damn obscene. Can’t hardly fathom that you’re fuckin’ those kind of whimpers out’ve a big strong lad like him, can you?”

“Can’t,” repeated Francis with a hard shudder. “Can’t. Oh, god.”

“That’s it, love.” He was hitting the perfect spot with each thrust; give a body a couple of minutes of that and Blanky’d come as easy as a ship’s boy in a hammock. “Faster, now.”

“Fuck!” Francis’s arms shook too much to keep him level; either he was too plastered to hold himself up, or he was far closer than Blanky had reckoned. “‘M gonna make you come all over, J – jus’ like a cannon.”

“You’re as steady as a storm-tossed dinghy, more like,” Blanky pointed out, not unkindly. “Here. Let us steer the ship, eh, duck?”

Francis made a disappointed noise, but he slipped out without further protest. They shuffled around the berth till he was lying on his back in the warm spot Blanky had left. But the Irishman’s eyes got brighter’n two lit lanterns when Thomas slung one leg across his wide hips, reached down between them, and guided Francis back inside him without a word, sinking back on his cock in one smooth motion.

“Oh, god,” Francis sobbed, and shivered under the sudden cinch of it. The back of his head dropped against the pillows.

“Too right,” drawled Blanky in a dark whisper, canting his hips in slow, easy circles before he began to thrust in a sure rhythm. “Lad wanted to ride you, didn’t he? Bounce up and down on that thick cock, take his fill of ya.”

Eyes screwed shut, Francis nodded his head, pressed his lips together. Callused hands now palmed Thomas’s flexing thighs.

“All so he could feel how hot you get, eh? Right when you’re poised to come, blazed red like a deep sunburn, hangin’ on for your fuckin’ life as he rocks ye, faster, Francis, faster, get that cock in deep and split him open like tha’ bleeding Tartar bullet.”

Hell’s tits, this conjured picture was getting to Blanky, as well. He got a hand round his own cock so he could picture it rightly. Frank on his back in  _ Erebus’s  _ berth _ ,  _ and fancy Fitzjames humpin’ away on top of him in abandon, biting his lip like a shy little maid, blushing peaches and cream from the tip o’ his rose red cock to his rucked-up, snow-white shirtsleeves. 

Now there’d be a show if you’d ever seen one.

“And he’d beg you for more, aye? Whimper and buck and cry wi’ each –  _ ah, Christ  _ – till you’re fit to bursting, Francis, an’ he’s clutching you so goddamn tight – ”

Inspired, Blanky released his grip on his cock and dropped down to his elbows, only pausing for a half-second before canting his hips again, fast as he could, till Francis gasped out a desperate breath against the shell of his ear.

“J – hmm. Fuck back on it.  _ Please. _ ”

“Aye, keep t’band in t’nick, love. Almost there.”

They were both skirting the cliff-edge, now, Thomas’s cock dripping a sweet path between their bodies and Francis’s hips slapping Thomas’s arse in turn, loud as a shutter blown-open in a summer storm.

“An’ ye’d take that glass-sharp jaw in both hands,” Blanky was already nudging Francis’s bicep with one elbow so the Irishman would put both arms ‘round his neck, teasing the soft lobe of Frank’s ear with tongue and teeth, “snog the daylights out of that proud thin mouth, suck his clever-clogs tongue, even, and he’d mewl at ye so sweet – ”

_ “Francis?” _

Somewhere in the distance, a too-familiar voice echoed out around the orlop deck. Could be nothing more’n a ghost in their heads. Sounded more like the man of the hour himself, come in from the cold.

The Irishman went rigid at the sound, and clutched Thomas tight; he was too far gone to stop now. Thomas quickly covered Francis’s open mouth with his own to silence his friend’s whimpers, though their combined panting still echoed all around the berth. 

On the next thrust aft, he bore down around Francis’s cock, tight as he could.

Gasping, Francis bucked up and skelled hard, blunt nails digging into bare flesh, shivering and moaning like a man possessed as Thomas followed him over the edge.

Lost to all but the ebb of release, they clung together for nearly a minute more, Thomas trying to muffle his own noises as best he could.

As they came down from the peak of it, sticky with seed and their combined sweat, Blanky couldn’t help smiling. Right familiar, being quiet at the end like that. He’d spent half his life muffling his baser instincts, whether as part of a ship’s crew or because Esther’d get in a tizzy about wakin’ the baby again.

By Christ. Baby was probably seven or eight now, wasn’t she? Hard to fathom that.

Below him, Francis let out a deep sigh, and now seemed fairly middling in temper when compared to before. With both hands, he patted Blanky between the shoulders in a brother-like embrace, as if they’d just done nothing more’n spot each other across the bergs after a long absence. Only difference were he was still buried deep inside, and he couldn’t yet meet Thomas’s eye for blushing. 

“Ready?” he asked quietly, when Blanky cocked a knowing brow.

“Go on, then, duck.”

Sighing again, Francis pulled out, and they untangled themselves to mop up in earnest, using a bit of the ice melt from the basin and a flannel that seemed to be left over from this morning. They’d no sooner gotten their kegs and coats buttoned than the knock came again from just outside the wardroom door, slightly more impatient this time.

_ “Blast it, Francis, will you let me in or won’t you?” _

That were our Fitzjames, all right. Sounded right pissed off, mind. Wonder what the devil he looked like when he were well and truly furious?

Fully dressed, Blanky couldn’t quite tone down his madcap grin as Francis opened the berth door, and they stepped back outside. But he did take the opportunity for one last swig of whiskey as Francis let his fellow captain into the ward room.

“Jesus God, you impatient rascal. You could’ve sent word first.”

“Yes, Francis, I am certain the lack of  _ notice  _ is most pressing on your leisure t – oh. Master Blanky.”

The cut glass clicked against the mahogany table as Blanky set it back down, and turned to greet the ward room’s esteemed visitor.

“Afternoon, Cap’n.”

Fitzjames seemed a bit surprised at finding Crozier alone in his Ice Master’s private company, but it didn’t show through in his wide smile, only in a brief, tense flash of the eyes. “Am I – interrupting a report, by chance?”

“Nah, you’re all right. Dropped by for a quick chat, is all. Bit of personal business.”

“Ah. And so you should do, yes. Well, I – I hope all is well with you lately?”

“Aye, never better. Dead chuffed you’d ask.” His own cheer was fully genuine, that was certain enough. “Have our  _ Terrors  _ won the day, then? Come to offer up a handsome reward?”

“Thomas,” hissed Francis, and cast him a piercing glare behind Fitzy’s back.

“What? Oh – no, nothing so silly.” And Fitzjames went sort of discombobulated, like, opening his mouth and then shutting it with a loud click, as if he were ashamed to come calling on his fellow officer without even a reason. “Er. We – the men are still taking the air. Thought we two – ” gesturing to himself and Frank, of course “ – might discuss a few important matters in the meantime, before the  _ Erebites  _ return to the ship.”

“Oh, aye. Keep t’band in t’nick.” Nodding his head, Blanky pursed his lips in a thoughtful way, as if this were the most reasonable excuse in the world. Bloody blasphemous to be quite so bold, but as they were yet alone, and Francis was still jelly-limbed, he had a feeling he’d get away with the cheek this time. “Well, I’ll leave ye to your important meeting, then, eh, gentlemen?”

“Yes, thank you, Blanky.” Francis looked to have found his voice at last, were tryin’ to observe the formalities. “Shut the door behind you, if you would.”

“Course I will.” Now he were behind Fitzjames’ back, Blanky took the opportunity to wink at Francis one last time, and grinned when he saw the Irishman’s cheeks pink up bright as a mill girl’s. All too easy to rile him after. “I’m off to see a man about a dog.”

All he caught as he put the wood in the oyl was Fitzjames’ slight huff of confusion. “Neptune, I suppose?”

“What? No, he – don’t know what that fucking means, actually. Never asked.”

But it was said with a near-gentle laugh, and an expression perilously close to a schoolboy’s besotted smile, so it was likely the kindest reply the  _ Erebus  _ Captain had ever got from a plastered Crozier, all things considered.

Blanky’s pleased smirk widened as he sauntered up the orlop deck toward his quarters, and paused by the officers’ quarters a few moments to stretch the kinks out of his still-burnin’ arms and legs. If he had a few more minutes to himself, might as well get his slops on, go up, and have a long smoke on the quarterdeck. Take a bit of time to sort out his thoughts in private, before the rest of the ship came in from the cold.

Somewhere between here and Greenhithe, Francis Crozier had apparently tripped head over cock for his Second. And judging by the forced smiles and the half-jealous glares that followed, Fitzjames weren’t too far behind in his own sentiments, neither. Bleeding Christ, what a world. Sir John Franklin would’ve sooner et a thousand mouldy boot tongues than fucked around with his Second in the dead of night, and make no mistake about that.

Certainly gave a body plenty to mull over.

**Author's Note:**

> *evil laugh* Honestly, I just love how Blanky wants to come in, get off, and go smoke afterwards. Lovable scamp. Think I headcanon him as unabashedly poly, tbh. Loves his wife and family, but he's also made love to many beautiful women.... and if a beautiful man or two slipped in, there'd be no one the wiser!
> 
> Also, this has a LOT more secret threesome undertones than I expected (and my inner muse is definitely imagining Fitzjames summoning Blanky for a chat during Francis's withdrawal, and Blanky being like "....so you don't just want to talk to me about Fury Beach? Huh.")
> 
> Title taken from [this classic slow jam.](https://youtu.be/vml8gRsFdIE?t=68)


End file.
